The Heart Wants
by friedmermaidtails
Summary: "Habits" sequel - In light of Burns' passing, Waylon struggles to pick up the pieces. Through his search for solace and neediness to find a reason to carry on, a business deal is struck: re-opening Mo's. However, working alongside Moe may prove that business is not to be mixed with pleasure. (Hiatus)
1. Interview with a Bartender

"How great it is when we come to know that times of disappointment can be followed by joy; that guilt over falling short of our ideals can be replaced by pride in doing all that we can; and that anger can be channeled into creative achievements... and into dreams that we can make come true."

― Fred Rogers, The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember

* * *

Chapter One

Interview with a Bartender

Little time had come to pass; it was just a few days shy of being a month since Springfield's most influential, multimillionaire owner of the nuclear power plant – C. Montgomery Burns – had met his fate at the clutches of a savage cancer. And yet, within that short period, life had once again fallen into the humdrum and mundane routine for nearly every resident. Kids woke up and went to school, adults got up and headed off to work, and animals went about their leisurely days – it was almost as though nothing had happened, and to most it would seem that way; most people didn't have their thoughts and emotions embedded within the deceased. Most people weren't Waylon.

It was only through a singular promise he had made to his boss that kept Waylon returning to the plant each day since Burns' death. Smithers had promised to keep the plant running like clockwork, seeing to it that nothing changed; if only the elderly man could have foreseen just how much changing it would have done not to the plant but to the assistant himself.

It had become almost sickening how eerily normal things had become. It seemed as though Burns had never existed, and the only person close enough to him to care was forced to act as though he didn't. Waylon had to swallow whatever broken shards of what-ifs and could-have-beens that had been left behind as a result of his tragedy.

He glared at the clipboard he held loosely in his hand, reviewing a stack of papers Burns' temporary replacement had thrust upon him. He sighed, using a hand to knead at the bridge of his nose and push his glasses atop his head, and drummed the end of his pen against the paper. Tiny ink specks were left over the empty boxes beside the list of qualifications that were mandated prior to Burns' passing for his permanent replacement. It seemed that was Waylon's only use anymore, finding someone suitable to take the place of someone he once thought to be irreplaceable. Each work day was nothing more than a bottomless sea of paperwork and interviews with klutzy hopefuls and oafish wannabes.

He cleared his throat, which burned from the acid of his inner cynicism, and spoke to the trembling man sitting in the chair opposite his own, "thank you for your time, we'll be in touch; send the next person in when you leave."

The other fumbled with his constantly crinkling tie as he stood upon wobbly knees and staggered toward the door. It was an ironic sight, for Waylon remembered a time when he was just the same – timid, nervous about failure, terrified and yet totally captivated by someone of a higher power. It was enough to bring a faint and feeble smile to his lips, one that played for but a moment before wilting into a frown. The assistant's chest flooded with a mix of indecipherable feelings, but for the moment he decided to be content with the foremost feeling of frustration over the daily routine.

He dashed a line through the hopeful's name, marking the checkboxes fittingly in accordance to the interview he'd just conducted. A groan ripped from his chest as he sat the clipboard atop his desk, tapping his fingers atop the stack of papers.

"How can they expect _me_ of all people to do this? There's nobody out there that could even come close to replacing Mr. Burns."

As his thoughts began to drift and his body sunk deeper into the chair's leather, the creaking of the heavy office door being forced open called his attention. His weary eyes made no effort to travel toward the door or to the person who stepped from behind it; his hands simply grabbed for the clipboard and snatched his pen from its housing in his shirt's pocket.

"Alright," he sighed to himself, pressing the tip of the pen to his chin, "welcome to the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, we look forward to the possibility of you becoming a member of our tea-,"

A chuckle and a sneer of a snort, "relax dere, Waylon. No offense, but I'm pretty happy bein's a grubby old bartenders."

Just as his body had sunk into his chair, Waylon's heart slunk down into the pit of his stomach. His tongue seemed to knot around itself as he drew words to the back of his throat, which had to be cleared before any of them would pass.

"Wh-what are you doing here, Moe?" Smithers attempted to hiss, the stammer conjuring a certain self-loathing. "Look, I'm really busy today; if I can't find a permanent replacement in two weeks, this whole plant will go straight into the ground. So, if you aren't here for an interview, you can just go home."

The bartender sitting across the desk held a slight arrogant smirk as he glanced around the room, captivated by the many strings of expensive goods. He shook off the glamour of a life that had left behind the monetary riches, and his focus was placed back upon the man before him, who was busily rubbing at his temples with his eyes welded shut.

"I just wanted ta drops by and -," Moe started before taking his bottom lip nervously betwixt his teeth. He sighed weightily and his shoulders slumped as his body sank into the ridged chair where he sat. "I hasn't seen youse around much after da funeral. Where've ya been?"

The abrupt seriousness lacing the thickly-accented voice drove a dagger of bitterness into Waylon's heart, which nearly ceased to beat. He sighed, laid his clipboard upon the desk, and laced his fingers atop the papers – how ironic it was that he had suddenly found himself sitting where Burns had once sat, absent-mindedly mocking the deceased's former actions of frustration – and he tried to draw his thoughts away from the agonizing stress building at the base of his neck and shooting into his forehead.

"Well, unlike _someone_ ," he jeered, adjusting his glasses in a matter-of-fact manner while the eyes behind the specs narrowed in the other's direction, "I have actual things to do at work instead of serving beer and swatting roaches all day long."

"Ay!..." Moe snapped before reeling in his anger and replacing it with a tone of uneasy calmness, "dats don't answer my question."

"I've been busy, okay? And besides, it's not like you've exactly been trying to get up with me. I haven't heard from you in almost month, so, explain that."

How could Moe explain that? How could he explain that he'd do anything to go back force his past-self to send all those draft messages he'd typed up only to delete, or how the very vision of Waylon made him question every fling he'd ever had, or how just thinking about those hard-to-remember fragments of drunken yesterdays forced him to fumble with who he'd always thought he was? Moe's very being had been tossed asunder, and the person he'd thought he was had come to be but a mere figment. There was no possible answer, no logical way to express those feelings that kept him tossing throughout the night. There was no putting into words just what and how deeply he'd come to feel for Waylon.

"Uh… w-well - ay, I'm here nows, ain't I? Dat's all dat mattas."

The staggering remark with a twinge of a snap was returned with an exasperated breath and the pitiful sight of Waylon clutching harder upon his temples, trying to massage away the migraine that raged behind the flesh and bone.

Moe hesitated briefly before rising from his chair, "youse don't look so good, youse want me ta get ya's some aspirin or somethin's?"

"Gee, thanks, and no, I'm fine," Waylon answered in a monotone grumble and with a roll of his eyes as he gained the courage to open them and rise from his own seat, collecting a briefcase of paperwork before heading toward the door, "I was just about to head home anyway."

* * *

"You can never really know someone completely.

That's why it's the most terrifying thing in the world, really—taking someone on faith, hoping they'll take you on faith too.

It's such a precarious balance, it's a wonder we do it at all.

And yet..."

― Libba Bray


	2. Forgiveness of Pride

"Nobody can tell what I suffer!

But it is always so.

Those who do not complain are never pitied."

― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

* * *

Chapter Two

Forgiveness of Pride

A fret played along thin lips as Moe eyed the other, watching with intent as Waylon futility tried to ease the pain of his head with the tips of his fingers.

"Youse sure youse don't wants me to get youse sometin'? It ain't no trouble," the barkeep assured with a forced smile and a cautious hope resting within his eyes.

The scowl from the suited man was piercing, narrow and weak eyes digging daggers into the other man's flesh. Waylon held his head downward, eyes tilted upward above the brims of his glasses in order to see where he was going. A hand fell limply from his forehead and formed around the knob of the office door, his fingers feebly gripping the brass without turning the object.

"I said I'm fine," he grumbled in Moe's direction, shoulders drooping with a sigh. His forehead fell to rest against the cool wood of the door, something he often did when he wished he could slouch into total disappearance.

Waylon's heart was tugged by varying emotions, arteries and veins seemingly being yanked in an array of directions, causing his chest to ache just as horribly as his head. He drew in a hefty breath before sensing the warmth of another body leaning against his own at the door, a body which he quickly turned to face and shrug away from.

"Stop worrying about me," he spat despite his tongue's unwillingness to unleash the vile taste that coated it, the bitterness sounding more like that of surrender. "It's not like you cared that much after Burns di – um, well, passed…"

"Died," Moe bluntly corrected, ignoring the hurtful words spewed in his path and wriggling into the back of his mind. "Face it, Waylon, he's dead. He ain't on some fancy-schmancy yacht cruise or whateva da hells it was he did with his life – he's _dead_ , and he ain't comin' back."

"You think I don't know that?!"

Ire – pure, horrific ire that caused Hell to pale in its very presence. Waylon's voice held a strength it hadn't known in years, one he hadn't used since his ex-wife had spoken (in a round-about sort of way) poorly about Burns.

While Smithers had been questioning his feelings, which were just as unrequited in death as they were in life, since the passing of the elderly tyrant, some small part of him still bled, still riddled him with agony whenever the obvious was stated. Perhaps it was the fact that he wasn't the best at dealing with death in general, or perhaps he just didn't care to have what would never be brought to his attention, or maybe he simply didn't have the patience for his own foolishness to be shoved down his gullet time and time again; either way, the very mention of Burns or death or any sort of relation thereof infuriated him.

His face blushed soon after once he'd realized the hastiness of his actions, and his glasses slipped to the tip of his nose when his head tipped downward to face the floor for what seemed the millionth time that afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Moe," he uttered in a half-hearted apology, turning the brass knob after an infinity of simply tapping it with his fingertips, "I guess I'm still sensitive to the whole thing. It's not that I can't face it, it's just-,"

"Youse can't face it," the other interrupted with smug arrogance, excusing his actions by holding the weighty door open for the man shooting spiteful glares at him.

"Yes, I can! Damn it, Moe, do you always have to be so-," the words wouldn't come to him. In spite of his strained efforts to find a definition suitable of the greasy barkeep at the door, none were delivered. It was a wonder if they were hiding from the boiling frustration or if some splinter of his mind knew that there weren't many hateful words he could conjure to describe someone that treated him as equally and as well as Moe had.

"So's what?" Moe pressed with a twisted expression, the one he often held before a harmless bar fight would sweep through his tiny tavern. "What am I's, huh? C'mon, Waylon, dere ain't nothin's youse can say ta me dat I ain't heard befo's."

Despite the irritated facial expression, there was a playfulness lacing the verses. If there was nothing else to call him, Moe was certainly a walking contradiction.

"Why do you have to be so damn _nice_?!

Moe's lips fell agape as he stammered, stunned by the words, "w-well, I was wrong, I… I ain't neva heards dat one befo'."

* * *

Their conversation had sustained as they walked through the overstretched hallway, Smithers a good few steps in front of Moe. Regardless of the miniscule gap between their strides and the sometimes spiteful tones in their speech, employees set ablaze a wildfire of gossip about the two (partially from out-of-context information from the mouth of Homer Simpson).

The tension-laced banter had slowly begun to dissipate as the men exited the facility and entered the parking lot. Moe's steps had grown closer; the toes of his scuffed shoes nipping at Waylon's heels, resulting in nothing more than stirring further aggravation for the latter.

Once he'd reached his vehicle, Waylon's hand splayed along the door handle, his head twisting to glare maliciously at the man that loomed uncomfortably close.

"Would you please stop following me? I get enough of that from Hercules; I don't need another puppy on my heels all day."

The mention of the rambunctious pup caused a faint grimace to sprawl across Moe's face, remembering all the times the mutt had shown him a vicious side that was never revealed to Waylon.

"Yeah, well, dat flea bag-,"

"Don't talk about him that way!"

"Sorry, sheesh…. Anyways," his tone took on the same seriousness as it had back in the office, and suddenly Waylon's spine shivered and his heart sunk downward in a combination of bitterness and fear, "I, uh, I think we's should talks. Ya'knows, about why youse hasn't seen me around much lately."

"Don't," Waylon responded, his voice harboring the same urgency as the other's, only delivered in a quaky whisper. His tongue had grown numb as his mind forced him to swallow the fragments of memories from recent times, and his stomach lurched on the remembrances, causing him to double over at the car. To avoid further tension and the possibility of being ill, he swallowed roughly and clambered into the vehicle, cranking it for the only purpose of rolling down his window to continue the conversation that he'd just moments earlier attempted to end. "You said you weren't going anywhere, and I was dumb enough to fall for it again. It's okay, really, I'm used to it."

"It ain't like dats, Waylon-,"

"Then what is it like, hmm? Look, as much as I like talking about how stupid I am, I should really get home and fill out the rest of this paperwork."

In a gesture, Waylon patted a stack of papers resting in the passengers' seat, hoping to pass off the unimportant assignments as something of greater urgency in order to separate himself from the awkwardness that wedge between the two of them.

Moe nodded in understanding, the desire to further press the issue burning in his chest as his heart throbbed, and bit upon his lower lip to hinder the intended words from seeping into the air. He, however, replaced them with a hasty parting, "yeah, right. Well, uh, I guess I'll's see ya around or somethin's…."

"Sure, Moe," Waylon returned the nod with a phony smile raising the ante as he returned the window to its proper position, sealing off any words that may have come to follow.

Anxious hands and trembling fingers worked feverishly at fastening the seatbelt and adjusting the mirrors according to his driving needs. It took but a moment for regret to flutter through his chest, which was already flooded with the concentrated emotions abandoned by the barkeeper, as he fixed the rearview mirror; a glimpse of Moe caught his eye, the mirror showing the disheveled tavern owner slinking on-foot toward the exit, nearing the gates quicker than what was to be expected of his poor posture. Heart strings snapped - a broken heart abruptly crammed within the aching chest cavity of the driver, who once again rolled down his window and beckoned to the opposite in a strained shout, "Moe! Wait!"

It took what felt an eternity for the cries to capture Moe's attention, but finally he turned and his clods started in Waylon's direction. Moe's face was pinched red from the cold, which had come to blister his cheeks after only a short time, and his broad nose trickled; his expression made it nearly impossible to decipher if that, too, were merely from the cold or from a moment of weakness and tearshed.

"Wh-what's? It's freakin' freezin' out heres, so's say what youse gots'ta say and let me go home, would ya?"

"Um, where's your car?"

"She's in da shop, what's it to ya?" A lie poorly covered by a snappy, hateful retort.

Waylon sighed, regret and guilt bubbling at the back of his throat, "o-oh, sorry about that… do you – I don't know – want a ride home or something?"

Moe's brief sourness had sweetened somewhat and his posture perked to prove so. A ginger smile tugged at the corners of his paling lips, yet he shook his head in a nonverbal declining of the invitation.

"Nah, it's probably outta your ways; youse gots all dat paperwork ta do and whatnots, and I don't wants'ta be no trou-,"

"It's fine, Moe. Really, I want to, to pay you back for all those rides you gave me when Mr. Burns was sick."

"Well, if youse insist," the barkeep chortled smugly as he swiftly shifted from one side of the car to the other, climbing into the passengers' seat and settling into the warmth chipping at the redness of his face.

"Well, I didn't exactly _insist_ , but what does it matter?"

* * *

"The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive."

― John Green, Looking for Alaska


	3. Bittersweet Home

"To live is the rarest thing in the world.

Most people exist, that is all."

― Oscar Wilde

* * *

Chapter Three

Bittersweet Home

The only sounds for quite some time were the plunks of small pebbles of the road bashing against the underside of the car before Waylon finally found the nerve to speak amongst the uncomfortable silence, "so, you said you wanted to talk – well, _talk_."

Moe's eye shifted from their stony glare upon the stretch of pavement before them and over to the abrupt voice from the driver. He heaved a sigh and shook his head as he slumped against the window, hand in palm.

"Eh, it wasn't nothin' importants," he grumbled, the urge to communicate of what had been plaguing his mind for weeks suddenly having dissipated. He had a terrible habit of lying – lying about his car being in the shop, lying that he was fine – and that was perhaps the worst; saying what he so desperately been thinking and pondering was nothing important. Nothing important – it was incredibly important, quite possibly the most important thing he ever needed to express, and yet he was completely comfortable with brushing it under the rug along with all of life's other most dreaded conversations. "I mean, it ain't nothin' dat can't wait."

"Well, it sure seemed important back in the office."

The sneer that oozed from Waylon's lips, which dipped into a quirk of apprehension, was enough to cause Moe to further retreat into the shell of himself. He slumped deeper within the seat, squirming anxiously as he watched the winding road ahead. His hand had thoughtlessly made its way to the back of his neck, nervously kneading the flesh like stubborn dough. It was only through the kneading that he mustered the ability to pipe back into the conversation, though his words were of small significance and dodged the subject, "how's yo' headache?"

Waylon's glasses slipped to the tip of his nose as his eyes drifted from the road and to Moe, narrowing during their travel. The driver heaved a groan and gripped the wheel a bit tighter, his actions trying to restrain his emotions.

"It's fine," he muttered, eyes travelling back to the road; it was then that Moe noticed the heavy bags, which almost matched the color of the road, beyond the other's specs.

"Youse look awful." Instantaneous regret at his poor choice of words created a rapid addition, "I mean… youse look _tired_ ; youse work too much."

"Could you just drop it?" Waylon spat, knuckles turning the purest shade of white as he gripped tighter upon the wheel. He drew in a breath before speaking again, hoping it would calm the anger that threaded into his tone, "just tell me where I need to turn."

Moe's eyes drifted toward the floorboard, staring at his scruffy shoes with the utmost guilt. His stomach was eroding with the acid from the stress and his lungs could scarcely inflate as he thought of how truly hurt and alone he'd caused the other to feel. It took him a moment to gather the courage to focus his eyes back upon the road and even longer before they would trail back to the other man's miserable face.

"Uh, make a left at dat stop sign," the bartender instructed in a low voice, which was very much unlike his usual, quick-to-anger personality. "And den youse just keeps straight until youse see da dead cat on da side of da roads."

Words were rapid to cling to the back of his throat, but Waylon bit his tongue and swallowed back the initial response in favor for one that wouldn't provoke, "… okay."

Moe gazed at the driver, watching his lips purse as he struggled to complete an unbegun conversation.

"Dat's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, youse ain't goin's'ta ask why I neva invited youse ova back when we ran da bar, or why I always stayed at yo' place?"

Waylon groaned before a faint, forced smirk curled at his lips, "well, if you want me to ask, then – why?"

"U-uh…" Moe stammered, unsure of how or why he'd gotten himself into the tight situation, and he wondered why he couldn't learn to keep his mouth shut as the other had. "N-never mind; Uh, youse goin's'ta see a sign around dis corner, and dat's where I live."

For a brief moment, Waylon simply followed the instructed route, only questioning the drive when the scenery became familiar; the town was more broken on this side, many cars broken down, the sidewalk dustier than usual, and amidst the mess sat a grumpy-looking hotel that probably saw much more crime than it was willing to admit.

Waylon instinctively, unknowingly stiffened as he often did when passing through the ruined parts of town. He found places such as this to be ones that one simply drove through and never actually resided within. His eyes, softer than they had been any other time of that day, glanced to the grubby passenger, and his throat tightened as he began to speak.

"You live here…?"

"Yeah!" Moe answered in a somewhat defensive tone as he tried to avoid eye contact and the feelings that brewed as the result whenever he did, "what's it to ya?"

"Nothing, I just… nothing…"

Silence bridged the remainder of their journey into the parking lot of the motel, several potholes being the only signs that this was a cruel reality from which there was no hope of waking. The compact, pink automobile drew attention from nosey neighbors as it parked within a typically empty space, standing out amongst the trash and the only other car in the lot, which had been broken down many decades ago.

Uneasiness – a peculiar calm before an inevitable storm, made Waylon antsy to turn the engine on once more and make a swift escape. The peering eyes from between the cracks of broken blinds made that urge infinitely stronger, and he was no longer able to restrain his goodbyes.

"Well, uh, I guess I'll see you some other time, then?"

The shorter of the two men simply lingered in the seat, his hand hovering against the cool metal of the door's handle. He nervously clicked his teeth together and examined his fingernails before heaving a sigh of timid confidence.

"Uh, youse wants ta come in or somethin's? We could… I don't knows… talk about things."

"The last time you said that, you didn't talk."

"Yeah, but dis is differents…" A pitiful plea peppered his stormy eyes. "Please?"

Smithers' eyes connected with the feebleness dancing within the others, and a groan of exasperation was part of a short, reluctant response, "alright…."

* * *

The bulky, unmade bed that was situated in the corner held sharp springs that threatened to stab at the former assistant's thighs as he took a seat, waiting rather impatiently for Moe to return from the kitchen with the coffee he'd offered when they first entered the room. Waylon's bespectacled eyes took long, painful looks about the room, noticing the tiny rodents and roaches that infested the place and all the chips and cracks within the off-white, seemingly-rotten paint. It was enough to cause his stomach to lurch and his face to screw, but not enough to rudely excuse himself when the other returned with a tray topped with two chipped mugs of abnormally-thick java.

"Sorry if it's too strongs for ya, I ain't be been able ta get around to gettin' any sugar or nothin's."

"Err," Waylon absentmindedly uttered as he cringed, taking a mug and trying to swish around the concrete-like concoction. He hesitated, hoping to avoid having to ingest such a horrific beverage, and chuckled softly to break the stubborn stare Moe held against him, "thanks."

Moe's hopeful stare loitered before he wilted, slumping to sit next to the other on the tattered mattress. He glanced into his own cup, cringing as the other had but taking a courageous swig from the mug nonetheless. His fingers curved around the asymmetrical sides, a few fingers slipping between the handle and cup, and his thumbs anxiously drummed along the edges.

"Youse don't has'ta drink dat," he sighed, noticing the uncomfortable expression and tensed posture of the opposite. It was then that his eyes drifted upward from the cup and focused on the man sitting beside him; an awkwardness settled that made the cup seem so alluring, but he forced himself to stay focused on the task he'd placed himself within.

Before Moe had the chance to start his explanation of days he'd spent in psychological torment over their actions during the illness and passing of Burns, Waylon gave a gentle cough, nodding gratefully as he set the mug atop the nightstand. His eyes, desperately tried to avoid the barkeep's hurt gaze, and began to further scope and inspect the room – everything in ruins, a faulty sink dripping and overflowing into buckets scattered on the floor, cracks tainting the walls, the smell of dead rats (or, in thoughts of paranoia, other species) lingering in the suffocating air; shambles, absolute shambles.

"So, this is where you live, huh?"

Moe couldn't suppress the bittersweet chuckle at the opposite's reaction, not mentioning the question had already been posed. He sighed, a false pride in his voice as he sat and placed his hands atop his aching knees, "yup, home sweet home, am I rights?" Another titter escaped his lips, far more bitter than the first and accompanied with a slump of his shoulders, "well, at least fo' another month, anyways. Youse'd think da management wouldn't charge so's much fo' a dump like dis."

And, in a moment of weakness that had always been his downfall, Waylon's anger had dissipated – all the little curses and hateful, meaningless words he'd thought toward the other were gone, suddenly replaced with concern for another's well-being. Damn that kind heart of his and how it continued caring no matter how many times it had been uncared for!

"Wait, what are you saying?"

"What's it sound like? I gots a month ta catch up on rent or I has'ta hit da bricks."

Waylon faltered, the discussion he'd pried for earlier no longer of any significance, "so, you'd be homeless?"

"Gee, youse catch on quick, dere, Einstein," the shorter of the two lightly snapped, instantly shaking off the tone and responding with an apologetic glance. "Uh, yeah, but I's can always stay at da bar. Now, just listen, I's gots mo' important things ta tell ya dan di-,"

"You can't just stay on the street."

",-dis… um, what?"

Oh, how his tongue loved to work faster than his mind! Waylon grappled for an escape from a trap he'd set and effectively snared himself within. His fingers worked at the wire rims of his glasses before slowly falling toward his lap, his hands clasping as his head drooped.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat before stammering out an awkward proposition, "look, Moe, I know we didn't leave on the best of terms, but, well, you're my friend; I just can't see you living on the streets."

"Why? Dat ought'a be easy – look at me," Moe interjected in a fragile attempt of humor only to be scolded with an unamused glare. "Sorry, but I's don't needs youse ta worry about me. So, would youse just listen already-,"

No such luck; once he'd talked himself into a predicament, Waylon had a way of following through with immersing himself in it entirely, "get your stuff."

"What?"

"Just get your stuff; we'll talk back at my place."

* * *

"I wanted a perfect ending.

Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.

Delicious Ambiguity."

― Gilda Radner


End file.
